


Death And All His Friends

by chromission



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst, Blood and Gore, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Mild Smut, Murder, Serial Killers, Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromission/pseuds/chromission
Summary: C.C. Tinsley and Ricky Goldsworth haven't seen each other since Ricky dropped out of university without a word.In 1967, the private investigator finds the chance to reconnect with an old flame he hasn't seen in 6 years.As always, situations are rarely ideal or legal. At this point you can't tell if the Turkish cotton sheets are stained by blood or red wine.





	1. Waiting for Daylight

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve written bout the boys in a tongue in cheek fashion and now I want to dip into different and maybe darker territory. I'll be adding more tags as the story progresses since they'd hint what would happen to early on.
> 
> I also need an outlet for pretentious floo fla here and there so how better to do it than to write a fic.
> 
> Shout out to [Echo_4127](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo_4127/pseuds/Echo_4127) for the lovely [gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144972) they have made :') 
> 
> Enjoy

 

 

The three-year-old establishment is bright and vibrant, and the flicker of the motel sign’s fluorescents mirrors the pulse -the heart beat of anxiousness in this barren stretch of quiet town.  
On the other side of the road sits Tinsley in his car. His eyes train to the image of a lit window of the only occupied room of the ‘5 Flames Motel’ - a yellow rectangle on the face of the motel’s wall.

The window starts to blur through his binoculars’ lenses. Faint taps on the roof of his car multiply to reveal itself to be pitter patters of rain. On his dashboard are loosely arranged documents detailing the missing persons case he is investigating. Cigarette ash dusts the sheets.

One Edgar B. Corkland, a missing fourteen-year-old boy last seen six months ago. Tinsley found a slither of a word about the sighting of the boy in this town. Edgar's suspected kidnapper, a Harold Summers, has managed to drop a trail that led Tinsley to him. Now on the verge of cornering Edgar’s whereabouts, Tinsley keeps his excitement barred by professional precision.

The suspect draws the curtains and Tinsley is left watching his shadow with a yellowed backdrop. Tinsley’s grip on the binoculars stay rigid as ever till a flurry of movement spikes the nerves in Tinsley’s body. The shadows of figures erratically pass the window and then halt all together when the light died. Tinsley retracts his head from the binoculars and looks pass the rain to see any movement on motel grounds. It is as if the motel turned desolate and empty of all life except for its sign’s light wavering through the rain like a candle struggling to stay alive.

  
Tinsley disregards the voice in his head screaming at him to stay in the car. Wary feet carry him across the wet road. He reaches the motel’s parking grounds when the room’s window is illuminated by yellow light. A figure of different stature than Harold’s walks slowly by the window and the lights go out once more. With great haste does Tinsley climb the fire escape stairs to the room to avoid detection.

He enters through the window with his pistol up ands sees the room with only the dim unsteady light from the outside.

The aftermath of domestic carnage has swept the room. Furniture scattered and flipped over. A few bottles of beer lay empty and recklessly arranged on the bedside table, one of them on its side right on the edge of the table dripping on the beige carpet. The only light of the suite comes from the bathroom with its door ajar. With caution in Tinsley’s steps, he enters the small bathroom. There he sees half of the curtain of the bathtub torn from is rod. It drapes over a lounging figure occupying the tub. The man’s left leg dangles over the rim of the porcelain –he’s fully clothed, shoes and all in a tub filled with diluted blood.

The shower head drips, the droplet creates a ripple in the fouled water. Tinsley pushes the curtain further to the side to reveal a sight that makes the detective jerk back in in horror and induce bile to rise up his throat.  
A dislocated jaw, lacerations to the face, both eyes swollen to dark violet -clotted blood on a gaping and fracture exposed from under the scalp above the left temple. There are jagged holes in the man’s shirt that continue to ooze red.

Footsteps can be heard nearing the bathroom making Tinsley point his pistol towards the door.

Ricky Goldsworth emerges through the threshold rubbing a bloodied towel between his hands. Tinsley’s grip on the pistol falters.

  
Perhaps it was the sight of blood on Ricky or the sight of Ricky alone that jarred the detective. Having not seen the shorter man’s face in over six years. Goldsworth is less gaunt than remembered and has some of his mass more defined.

  
Ricky pauses at the sight of the weapon then continuous forward making Tinsley's hold of the gun sturdier.

  
“Hello to you too, Tinsley.”

  
Tinsley doesn’t move or speak. Stunned more by the sight of the years etched under Goldsworth’s eyes than the drying red splotches all over his shirt. A low groan takes Tinsley’s attention back to the scene before him.

The man in the tub was alive.

  
Tinsley crouches by the man he now figured to be Harold Summers and attempts to administer some form of aid.

The weight of a hand, Ricky’s hand on Tinsley’s shoulder makes him freeze.

The hand travels up, brushes itself behind Tinsley’s ear and combs through his hair with the same tenderness expressed and felt all those years ago. Tinsley’s eyes are fixed on the all too conspicuous crack in the battered man’s skull when Ricky speaks again. “Some way to meet you again, huh?”

  
Tinsley wraps his necktie around Harold’s slit wrist rather pathetically with clumsy yet mechanical fingers.

“What have you done?” Tinsley barely whispers and Ricky doesn’t utter a word. Ricky’s hand retracts from Tinsley’s head leaving the hair faintly smelling of iron and copper.

  
Ricky bends down and with the most delicate of voice, he whispers in to Tinsley’s ear,

  
“I think you should leave.”

 

Tinsley could only glare at Goldsworth and watch him place the sullied towel on the rack. With cold calmness, Ricky undoes his belt and releases it from his trousers.

  
Tinsley is frozen in place. His joints only unhinge when Ricky wraps the belt around Harold’s throat with a hold of remarkable efficiency that had no ounce of aggression or oddly enough, malice.

Before Tinsley could make sense of anything, he lunges at Ricky, intent to incapacitate him. Ricky laughs as if he has encountered a punch line of a light joke. He revels the sensation of fists around his collar pressing his head and back into cold tiles with a force attempting to indent Ricky into the wall’s concrete.

  
“Oh ho ho! What’s this?” Ricky chuckles “I remember when you much preferred me to be the handsy one.”

  
“What the fuck is all this?!”

  
Ricky gives the face of a dumbfounded child, his eyes surveying the interior of the bathroom, purposefully scanning every corner and leaving the bathtub last.

  
“Oh, that?” Ricky mocks at the fading Harold. Tinsley slams and jostles Ricky into the wall.

  
“Woah there, Tinsley. You never showed that you liked it this rough when we used to fu-”

  
“Shut. Up." growls Tinsley.

 

Ricky raises his hands in mock surrender letting them snake up from Tinsley’s forearm then to his crooked collar.

  
“You know” Ricky now pats dust off Tinsley’s shoulders,“Edgar B. Corkland is dead.”

  
Tinsley’s face falls before contorting into rage. Ricky nonchalantly brushes a lock of hair off of Tinsley’s forehead. “You need a haircut, Tinsley” Ricky’s eyes don’t leave Tinsley’s hair, indifferent yet sharp.

  
“You should have seen sweet little Edgar after dear old Harold was finished with him. Even kept souvenirs.”

  
Tinsley’s jaw clenches when he takes a quick glance down at Harold slipping in and out of consciousness. Tinsley’s grip on Ricky loosens but limply hang onto the fabric. Ricky takes Tinsley’s hand with familiar gentleness and pushes them away. Tinsley takes a step back to let Goldsworth pass.

  
Tinsley stays in place, rigid with every muscle taut and clenched. His eyes are still cast on the tile floor when he hears grunts and frantic sloshing from the tub. He leaves the bathroom with slouched shoulders and without looking back he solemnly closes the door behind him.

 

* * *

  
Tinsley stays magnetised to the only window of the suite. A small dining table set by the window was decorated with pictures spilling out a suitcase. Tinsley glances down no more than two seconds before clenching his jaws with disgust and remorse in his eyes. Harold’s souvenirs lay out on the wood of the table in likeness to a grotesque collage. A series of photographs that are very condemning in Harold’s part detail the fate of the young Edgar Corkland.

  
Tinsley directs his strained eyes to look out to see the motel sign that continues its erratic pulse. He hears the sink momentarily run before Ricky steps out the bathroom. Ricky perches a clean hand that smelled of cheap soap on Tinsley’s nape.

“Don’t!” Tinsley snaps “Don’t fucking touch me!” he fumes as he lurches away from Ricky.

  
A tinge of regret pricks at Tinsley’s heart when he sees Ricky’s face but dismisses it as quickly as it came. Ricky rebounds, stuffs his hands in his trouser pockets and offers a wary Tinsley a smile.

  
“Have coffee with me.” Ricky softly says as he looks down to the photos on the table then to the window. Tinsley follows Ricky’s line of sight.

  
Dawn has broken.

 

  


	2. Leaves of Red and Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief glimpse into the past and a step into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say flashbacks? no -well imma still give you some anyway.
> 
>  
> 
> excuse the shitty grammar and errors. i'm rustier than ever

 

 

A pool of black swirls around its confines right after a hand pours coffee into a mug. The miniscule whirlpool of caffeine twirls to a stop and settles to reflect lacklustre eyes that stare into it. Tinsley wished the swirl to have never stopped.

Ricky dismisses the waitress from the table. The diner already filling up with patrons. The jukebox sputters to life after swallowing a nickel. The diner’s atmosphere alien and uncomfortable to Tinsley.  Before him is Ricky pouring the sugar tin into his coffee longer than Tinsley thought necessary, that he expected Ricky to empty the entire tin into the mug.  Tinsley wanted to frown but couldn’t find the energy to crease his eyebrows.

“Your coffee is getting cold” Ricky says before taking a sip of his own.

Tinsley sees the dark brown lines underneath Ricky’s clipped nails -dried blood that Ricky seems accustomed to. Ricky wears a pressed white shirt with brown tweed trousers -a stark contrast to the attire that looked of an amateur butcher a mere few hours ago.  

Thoughts are whipping by Tinsley’s mind with neck straining speed. Questions were difficult to pin. Ricky sees the cogs in Tinsley’s head and continues to watch him. In that moment Ricky could faintly see bookshelves behind Tinsley, not tables littered by plates holding greasy breakfast. He saw students carrying textbooks like busy bees instead of hovering waitresses. Right before Ricky’s eyes, a fresh-faced Tinsley wearing confusion pondering a question of a sheet he is holding. University seems to have given Tinsley kinder nights than of late, Ricky thought.

The scene of one of the many mornings and nights from days long past bleeds back to now. Ricky sees the customers eating their meals, the bright jukebox and Tinsley. He sees C.C. Tinsley.

Goldsworth is on his third cup yet Tinsley has left his own untouched.

“You obviously have questions.”

Tinsley’s lips part, taking a breath as if to say something when he stands abruptly. Ricky pauses the mugged occupied hand by his. Tinsley keeps his eyes to the floor when he slips out the booth and walks off. Tinsley’s hand is on the door, legs seizing when he hears Ricky raise his voice behind him. “Want to know why I left _then?_ ”

Tinsley presses on and leaves the door to close behind him.

 

Once in Tinsley’s car, dark spots form on the hood of the vehicle quickly spread. The rain acting like a curtain for privacy more than the confines of the car itself. It has been pouring for over half of the week now. He turns the ignition and doesn’t recall how he appears on the freeway. He acknowledges the reflex to cope responding to the circumstance. His unperturbed face contrasts the fists gripping the wheel so tight the knuckles turn shades lighter than his hands. He berates himself for leaving the motel with Ricky like nothing happened. A part of him tries to justify that it was out of shock -his nerves letting reason be put on hold. He flies by those he shares the road with earning him honks and shouts of disgruntled drivers.

 

* * *

 

Ricky looks down at his empty mug and stretches his arm to reach over Tinsley’s untouched drink. He takes it to his lips and internally grimaces at its sour aftertaste in its hold of meek room temperature. There is still some solace in what he does and proceeds to drink it without a breath of air. He finally sees the bottom of the cup with speckles of coffee grounds that have evaded the paper filter.

 

* * *

 

 _“This coffee is shit.” A bright eyed and floppy haired Tinsley_ _says._

_“I’m pretty sure that the campus wrote that in the fine print of the brochure.” Ricky shrugs._

_Rows of dark oak tables with antiquated lamps all neatly decked in the middle of the floor. The sound of pages flipping, pens scratching and the occasional coughs of exhausted students - universally acknowledged white noise of academic drudgery._

_Tinsley groans and tosses his pen onto his papers. He leans back and stretches, tilting the chair far back to warrant fear of falling over. He recoils and pulls a flask out of his mottled blazer to pour a splash of its contents into his coffee cup earning him a raised brow from Ricky._

_“How is that supposed to make it taste any better?”_

_“I don’t expect it to.” Tinsley takes a bold sip before wincing, making Ricky chuckle. “What are you working on now?”_

_“A metaphysics paper on-” Ricky interrupts himself and quickly crosses out a few words off his sheet and scribbles beside it._

_“On?” Tinsley takes another sip._

_“On Laplace’s Demon.”_

_“Oh? What is that?”_

_“Supposed there was an intelligent entity, a demon if you will” Ricky gestures to Tinsley. “that can calculate the positions and velocity of every atom in the future based of the trajectories -properties of said atoms from long ago. So, every outcome such as where you’ll raise your hand at a certain time is and can always be determined by their positions and state a million years ago. So -” Ricky leans in “If your physical actions are determined by their atoms long ago, how is it really your choice to perform the action?”_

_“So, you’re saying free will is an illusion?”  Tinsley’s eyes widen._

_“Or determinism is a bunch of baloney.”_

_And with that, Tinsley finishes his coffee._

 

* * *

 

 _I_ _n_ _the last few quiet hours of the day at the edge of the campus, the dim desk lamp radiates heat despite its distance from Tinsley’s hand. The remarkably small room that the university regarded as “impeccable facilities” is littered with old laundry, stacked and open books. The sound of crumpling paper is followed by a frustrated groan. Tinsley throws the balled-up sheet into an overflowing trash bin before plopping his head to the desk. Content with the uncomfortable position that will no doubt hurt his neck in the morning, he reaches out to turn the lamp off._

_A tap from the window interrupts him. He looks out to see nothing but the dark air. He ignores the sound before it had the nerve to return. He approaches the window and sees a figure down below._

_“Ricky?” He squints_

_“Open the window a tad bit more”_

_Tinsley complies and watches Goldsworth struggle to climb two floors of wall with amusement._

_“Turn the lights off!” Ricky hisses now not far from Tinsley’s window._

_Tinsley runs back to his desk and kills the light. By the time he has returned to the window, Ricky’s head and shoulders are through the window._

_Seeing Ricky climbing through his window would’ve evoked some adoration of the Romeo-esque effort, but Ricky’s clumsy limbs could only make Tinsley chuckle.  To put the shorter man out of his misery, Tinsley takes his arm and reaches out to Ricky. A breeze flushes into the room, flipping pages of open books and shaking leaves of a small houseplant on the desk. Ricky grabs Tinsley’s arm to drag him closer to himself. He places a flash of a chaste kiss to the corner of the taller man’s mouth._

_“What” Tinsley lets a sharp exhale pass between his lips. “What was that?”_

_Goldsworth thought of how much of a fool Tinsley was. He replies with great softness that almost sounds lethargic._

_“Surely you must know.”_

_Ricky successfully gets his whole form through the window with Tinsley’s help. It is as if the wind behind Ricky pushes the two of them to almost stumble over their feet. Tinsley shows no surprise when Ricky presses his lips against the fabric of his collar._

_Tinsley wraps his arms around Ricky. Without much thought they fall against the noisy spring mattress. Airy laughs escape messy haired two._

_“Now…” Tinsley sighs “could Laplace’s demon have foreseen the atoms that would now form your hand to be where they are now from way before either of us existed?”_

_Tinsley could only refer to the hand that belonged to Ricky untucking the shirt from Tinsley’s trousers and is now busying itself with his belt._

_“I hope so.” Ricky says with his eyes fixed on his hand working the buckle “because that would mean that this was always meant to happen.”_

_Tinsley could only let out a soft sound of indication that he was content and let the weight of his head pull him further into the pillow. He looks to his side to see the window wide open. A welcomed intrusion of dead leaves drift in, reminding him that fall has arrived._

 

* * *

 

 

The chortles of the typewriter reverberate in the humble abode that Tinsley possessed.  He stops to review the sheet that details the Edgar Corkland case. Making no mention of Ricky.

It has been over a week since he had seen Goldsworth’s face and quiet frankly, Tinsley considered with no surprise to the idea that he imagined the whole ordeal at the motel. The stillness of the night is all too consuming with the numbness in his chest.

The sound of hinges creaking alert Tinsley to the window.

Ricky maneuvers himself into the room with athletic grace.

“Hello.” Ricky offers “I wanted to see you.”

Thick aired silence stilled in the room like cold sludge making it hard to breathe. There is no thought into wondering how Goldsworth knew where Tinsley lived.

“Why?”

Ricky imagined Tinsley didn’t have his uninvited presence at the forefront of the question or the motel incident, rather being in reference to the events all those years ago.

“Oh Tinsley” Ricky says apologetically. Sincerity too pure to be believable glazed over his eyes.

“Don’t give me that!” Tinsley snarls. The room appears to shrink, perhaps with the space consumed by anger and deep breathes.

“Why did you do it?!” he now yells.

Ricky takes a step forward and takes another and another. Tinsley remembers that he still has his holster on. In a blind fit of rage, one hand pulls out his pistol and the other grabs Ricky by his collar and throws him atop the bed. Tinsley pounces on the smaller man and hovers above him. The gun’s barrel pressing into the Ricky’s jaw with Tinsley’s free hand pressing into Ricky’s shoulder.

“Answer me.” a crack in his voice loud and clear. Tinsley hated how he realized he didn’t care for the events in the motel as he felt his throat tightening.

The dam shatters and Tinsley could only sob into Ricky’s shoulder as Ricky cooed him.

“Sleep now and we’ll talk in the morning” letting Tinsley cling to him “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Those last few words were ones Tinsley remembered all to well. He last heard them six years ago in a small drafty dorm room. Tinsley looks to the window left ajar and notices a lone orange leaf float past the walls.

 

Autumn has come to greet him _._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes the fic's title is a song how creative of me lol.
> 
> i've been re-watching some movies and listening to music for inspiration. i finally read and finished a book for once and you can bet your ass it gave me lil boost to write if not some ideas. i made a reference in the first chapter to the book although i skewed it quite a bit. 
> 
> i imagined the library to be a mix between the [Trinity College Library](https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/17/49/8f/48/the-long-room-houses.jpg) and [George Peabody Library](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ac/The_George_Peabody_Library_in_Baltimore.jpg)
> 
> ahh love me some angst, i hope you like it.


	3. Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reminiscing seems to be worse than the drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is customary for italics to be used for flashbacks or past events, yeah?

          

 

The mornings are rarely tolerable for the fellow in his bed. The steam and aroma of freshly brewed coffee wades though the cold room, but it is the faint scent of copper prompts his lids to part.

There is a ruffling of papers when Tinsley’s eyes begin to adjust. The discoloured curtains with their seams coming undone stirs in the wind blowing into the room. The light almost blinding at Tinsley’s initial glance. He notices the light partially blocked by a figure standing before it.

Ricky has his back to Tinsley, holding a mug in one hand where the steam dances and dissipates in the sunlight. The other hand occupied with smoothing its skin over the sheets of paper that lay scattered over the aged mahogany table.

“For someone who’s quite particular about his coffee, you seem to only keep stock of the ones you complain about.” Ricky turns around to walk towards the bed. Tinsley feels the bed dip when Ricky sits himself on the mattress’ edge. Once Tinsley has sat up, Ricky takes Tinsley’s hand to guide its fingers around the mug to warm the freezing appendages. Tinsley thought the gesture unnecessary, but he lingered on the notion longer to realize he was wrong.

“How stupid of me.” Ricky smiles, he stands and walks off to leave Tinsley already missing the mattress’ dip.  Ricky closes the window and the curtains stop dancing like ghouls.

Tinsley couldn’t help but think Ricky intentionally left the windows open just to see him shiver.

“How did you sleep last night?” Ricky asks. He locks the windows with a resounding click.

“Just fine” Tinsley’s voice comes out ragged and hoarse. He looks to the floorboards not knowing what he should be looking at. A pause to clear his throat, “You said that you’d tell me why you killed that man.”

“Is that the first thing you really want to know?”

Horrific as the memory was, Tinsley felt it was inconsequential. The disgust and fear from the thought had little more if not the same impact as seeing day old roadkill that most wouldn’t bat an eye for. A memory reserved for when he’d be doing something mundane.

“Yes.”

Tinsley lingers on his apathetic tone, as if waiting for the dormant principles to come flooding back into him. His own response felt bland in his mouth, but he has faith in good intentions.

Ricky leans against the desk, not quite sitting but placing his weight on the edge of the wood.

“Very well then” he takes out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and shakes the carton long enough for the foam filter to stick out.  “Because I could.”

With his teeth, he pulls the cigarette out of its confines only to take it between his pointer and middle finger and flick his hand back in nonchalance. He notices Tinsley clutching onto the sheets, as if restraining himself.

“Oh, you didn’t expect that this was some vendetta, did you?” He lights his cigarette with the same metal lighter he’s owned from when he first met Tinsley. “Some kind of vigilantism?”

Goldsworth said the words not with mockery and snide bite, but rather with the calm cadence of a parent trying to comfort a disillusioned child who’s just discovered that Santa Clause isn’t real. He walks back to Tinsley.

With Tinsley’s eyes fixed on the wood of the floor, Ricky bends a knee before the bed and looks up to Tinsley with a crooked neck.

“Would you have felt better if I had let him live?” he takes a drag of the cigarette.

Tinsley grew tired of his own silence and jerks an arm abruptly, almost spilling the coffee.

“I don’t know! Maybe if you didn’t bash his skull in to begin with -maybe if you didn’t interfere or even-” Tinsley takes a half breath “may-maybe if you didn’t bother coming back at all, I would have felt better!”

He notices some of the coffee has gone over the rim and ran down his hand. The skin over his fingers already flushing and stinging. Ricky take the mug away from him and places it on the bedside table.

“You didn’t really stop me, not with that lousy excuse of an attempt.”

Goldsworth’s voice continuing to hold no inflection that he was angry.

The clock’s face reveals it to be the early afternoon, prompting Tinsley to untangle himself from the sheets. Taking note of the clothes he’s had since yesterday, he ignores Goldsworth when he makes his way downstairs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Thundering footsteps rhythmically pounded against the wood of the stairs as Tinsley busies himself locking his room. The footsteps stop and he hears his name being called from across the dorm hall. Tinsley stuffs a pocket with his keys before looking where the head of the stairs would be._

_“Hurry up!” Ricky says already posed to run down the stairs, one arm swinging a basket to and fro._

_“Calm down, would you?” Tinsley puts more caution in in steps despite the jittery speed that of which his legs carried him. He cradles a suitcase in his arms as if afraid someone might swipe it out of his grip._

_One of the doors from the hall open fast and hard, the hinges wailed as if they were going to break off. A head with an aggressive mop of tangled hair peeps out. “Could you shut up! People are trying to sleep here!”_

_Tinsley and Goldsworth fail to smother their laughs as they now put no effort in hushing their footsteps that only grew fainter as they descended._

_They push the dorm’s main doors out in unison to be greeted by sharp pang of cold air. The sky quite violet and_ _cesious has started to collect clouds. The wind’s whispers turn into wails and a flurry of dead leaves performs somersaults -as if mimicking a murder of crows._

_To the north of the campus lay a great expanse of woodland. There are talks of developing it, but before then other students used it as a haven for the misdemeanor. Not uncommon to wander and stumble into a pod of law students huddling together and passing around a suspicious smelling cigarette or the biology club looking for the bottles of rum they had stashed in a rotting log._

_Today the woodlands hold no signs of frat parties or inebriated art students looking for inspiration, only swaying trees and shivering shrubs under the dark sky. Tinsley and Ricky’s trek will prove to be over an hour long. Both somewhat inappropriately dressed for the journey on foot. Ricky wears a brown chesterfield coat, unbuttoned despite his grievances about the cold and lights the way with a dim torch full of old batteries. The collar of an unpressed shirt is tucked under his moss coloured sweater. The thicket of the woods scratch at his worn-out gray chinos as he marches on. Behind him is Tinsley in a navy overcoat no thicker than Ricky’s with slightly wrinkled beige dress pants. He clutches the base of the collar of his gray fisherman’s cardigan to keep the chill from getting into his chest. The boys’ battered oxfords certainly taking more beatings from the shrub ridden forest floor._

_They settle in a cozy clearing they had found almost a year ago. By then the sky had bloom into orange with tinges of violet at its edges. The canopies continue to release their flimsy hold on the red leaves, showering the floor below gently like glitter dropping to the bottom of a snow globe._

_A checkered blanket with its stiches threatening to come undone laid out on the ground. The basket Ricky held now sits snug in the centre. Tinsley takes out a transistor radio from his suitcase and fiddles with the knob. A melody comes along -a[Doris Day ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7j8wa9sWOE) rendition. Tinsley turns his attention to the wine bottle that sits in the case and bites down the cork to yank it off. Ricky has laid out a small feast of fruit, cheese and bread. _

_“Oh, Goldsworth. You spoil me.” Tinsley says while eyeing which cheese to pick._

_“Here, try the smoked gouda” Ricky says in an exaggerated haughty manner while twiddling with a nonexistent mustache._

_“You are a pretentious bastard.” Tinsley rolls his eyes and lets Ricky feed him the cheese._

_“And you adore me.”_

_Tinsley smiles. “I do”_

_Ricky kisses Tinsley’s brow bone. “And I love adoring you.”_

_The wine bottle empties and the crackers are replaced with crumbs. The boys lay down and watch the clearing in the canopy now fading into the long lost blue that continues to hide behind the graying clouds. Ricky has his head on Tinsley’s thighs as he feeds himself grapes from the stalk like the carefree spirits from paintings that depicted hedonistic Greeks._

_“What do you really plan on doing after all this?” Tinsley asks_

_Ricky shrugs and picks another grape with his teeth, “I don’t know, suck you off perhaps?”_

_Tinsley smacks Ricky’s forehead, causing the smaller man to choke on the half chewed grape._

_“No, no! I mean after you graduate!”_

_Ricky folds an arm over his face in a theatrical fashion. “It seems that I can’t breathe! The grape has slain me”, he lays still._

_Tinsley sits up to jostle Ricky to no avail. He removes Ricky’s arm out of the way to see that he’s still playing dead. “Oh no! Whatever will I do?” Tinsley feigns._

_Tinsley rolls his eyes again before placing a hand on Ricky’s forehead and shoulder. He hunches over to delicately place his lips over Goldsworth’s._

_Ricky’s hand finds itself in Tinsley’s hair, combing through and scratching the scalp. Their mouths kept moving with a slither of a tongue in between. They couldn’t help but curl their lips up even when attached to each other’s._

_Before anything could get heated, Tinsley reluctantly pulls away. “I’m serious. Where do you plan to go afterwards?”_

_“I’ll be wherever you’ll be, don’t worry. Even if you decide to live in some abysmal gutter full of rats” Ricky laughs_

_“You mean that?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Do you promise that?”_

_Ricky draws an x over his chest, “and hope to die.”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Tinsley is in his kitchen, rummaging through his cabinets.

“Looking for this?” Ricky calls behind him, holding a bottle of half-drunk whiskey.

Tinsley doesn’t look at him when he snatches the bottle out of his hands. He roughly takes the cap off and tosses in into the sink, his back to Goldsworth.

 

“You should know that I did not want to leave.”

 

 _But you did._ Tinsley kept the response to himself and replaces it. “Oh, who cares?” he waves the bottle in the air. “It doesn’t fucking matter.”

 

Tinsley starts to walk away, his steps broken and heavy. He remembers there being no explanation, sign or note. He went to Goldsworth’s room to which no response came even after several days. Only left to discover Goldsworth’s disappearance when he checked with the campus office that they said ‘he has withdrawn from his studies and taken leave for what is said to be an _indefinite_ period’

 

“I did say goodbye,” Tinsley stops in his tracks. “ albeit in your sleep.” Ricky leans against a wall with a limp arm still holding on to the cigarette.

“I came through your window on the night of-” he raises his hand to bring the burning tobacco to his lips. “-the reason why I left.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Say nighty-night and kiss me  
>  Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me  
> While I'm alone and blue as can be  
> Dream a little dream of me  
> _


	4. The First of Violent Delights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night Ricky left six years ago.

 

The skies are brushed gray today. Subdued light from the window pours into the living room, casting a cold glow onto every surface.

“It was unexpected, I assure you.” Ricky’s eyes blankly set on the floor’s chafed wood. His voice was low, almost humming.

“It was like any other night. No hint of destiny stirring in the wind, no gooseflesh erupted, no twist in the gut. Nothing indicated that anything would change everything, Tinsley.”

He was expecting Tinsley to lose patience and walk off, but he wasn’t all too surprised when the taller man sat down on the sofa. With the bottle he nurses, Tinsley gruffly takes a sip and Ricky continues.

“Then the most extraordinary thing happened”

 

* * *

 

_Another mundane day has passed and comes the night that glazes over the town. A gust of wind greets those who walk under the streetlamps. Lamps that illuminate the shop signs buzz and cars glide by like scurrying insects._

_Goldsworth keeps his eyes on the pavement, intent to catch a rat run by. His footsteps are soft but the tap of his shoes hitting the pavement ring in his ears. His mind wanders back to his ten-page dissertation that is tucked inside his leather messenger bag. Thoughts of revision, omission and addition of phrases and ideas ran. The paper was no where close to being finished, and he hasn’t the faintest clue how he will end it._

_In the briefest of seconds, Ricky’s body has itself slammed into a brick wall of an alley. His hand instinctively clutches onto the sling of his bag. Cold and thin metal is pressed to Ricky’s neck. A trickle of warmth rolls down the skin travelling to the shirt collar where the line of blood halts and soaks into the fabric._

_He assumes the man is asking for money or valuables, but no sound left the man’s mouth. The car light swings by and illuminates the alley, a brisk wave of yellow sweeps Ricky and the man, but there were no sounds of tires crunching on the asphalt or wind whipping._

_Ricky has a hand to motions to his pocket._

_The assailant has his hands on Ricky’s wallet and has pulled back the blade, but Ricky couldn’t recall the man taking it out his pockets or lifting the knife off him. The man with the knife is jittery. His one hand trying to open the wallet while the other keeps the knife shakily pointed at Ricky._

_‘A novice?” Ricky thought, finally realizing what the past few seconds have been. He notices the assailant hasn’t bothered just taking the bag and bolting off._

_No mask or effort to conceal his face.  The man’s features it seems... had no palpable form, that Ricky could’ve sworn he was seeing no one at all. The alley was a drifting bubble from the world; unseen, unheard of, and in the most sense- out of bounds. What made it this way, Goldsworth couldn’t say._

_He looks at the knife curiously to see that the thin line of blood at its edge looked like ink under the lack of direct light. Marbled sounds start to break through, only heard as if one was submerged underwater. The man with the knife steps a pace back when he looks at the wallet._

_The hand holding the blade fiddles with the handle to adjust its grip._

_Another yellow hued light passes by and Goldsworth finds himself with both his hands around the assailant’s weapon wielding wrist. Unaware if he was breathing hard or hardly at all, Goldsworth has the knife in his grasp._

_A sharp jab into his ribs from a fist causes Goldsworth to drop the knife. Neither the man nor Goldsworth saw where the knife landed, its faint clang on the ground held no aid to determine its location._

_Another car passes by, another wave of light.  Merely four feet from the sidewalk in which he stumbled out of; Ricky sees bright lights inviting him to run to them in that split second -inviting him to flee from what is to come._

_He rejects the call and turns around, throwing his weight on the man. The wriggling form laying on his stomach clamoring for a hold on the lost knife. Goldsworth’s hand pulls out his pen -from which pocket he can’t recall. He turns the man over and straddles him over the stomach._

_A scream erupts and the bubble in which Goldsworth felt around this portion of space and time bursts._

_Clarity finally saturates in the most unfamiliar degree, like the first splash of cold water of a morning shower hitting one’s skin._

_Goldsworth has the pen in his vice and the nib disappears into the man’s chest. He pulls the pen at skewed angle not without twisting it as it left the man’s skin. The other hand which held onto the man’s collar now clamps over his mouth. The struggling man’s arm has erratically scratched, hit, and push against Goldsworth’s frame._

_The fountain pen’s nib collects blood in its cartridge and is out of sight once again as it is plunged deep into flesh -into the side of the neck again and again and again._

_With the taste of rust on Goldsworth’s tongue, he looks down to see his blotchy work. A steady stream seeps out from the crevices of broken skin and tissue. The grip on the pen falters from what his wet hands provide. He feels warm red speckles that eventually drip off his face._

_The man sputters a few coughs, sounding as if he was gargling. Goldsworth realizes that he has punctured his throat. The man’s hands have lost their vigour, and all together ceased to hit Goldsworth. He tries to speak, wide blood shot eyes directed ferocity yet pleaded for mercy. Goldsworth releases the pen and cups both his hands over the man’s mouth and nose._

_Legs stop kicking, arms lay limp and eyes roll back. ~~~~_

_Goldsworth felt faint steam arise from the cadaver’s wounds. He lifts his hands away and feels the night’s air cooling his wet hands. He parts his sticky fingers -and as if uncomfortable with the cold on his hands, he presses them on the man’s oozing neck._

_A honk of a car horn breaks out prompting Goldsworth to look out onto the street. He stills, waiting for someone to walk by._

_Nothing._

_A few seconds pass and he deftly stands up. He retrieves his bag and run his hands over the sling as he adjusts it over his shoulder -the leather of the bag now sticky. He walks out into the roadside and doesn’t look back._

_His reflection on shops windows don’t show much. The dark makes him a stranger to himself; anonymous and inconsequential._

_He saturates into the background of the street and may very well be the flaking posters on the wall no one bothers to read._

_He almost does not notice a booklet that has fallen out his bag, its cover facing the sky with its fading print. ‘The Imp of the Perverse’, the booklet read under a streetlamp’s light._

_Goldsworth stares at it for moment, as if it would disappear if he blinked. He kneels down and flips through it to examine the soiled pages. The last page demanded his attention and he obliges._

_“To-day I wear these chains and am here! To-morrow I shall be fetterless! -- but where?”_

_He stands up and walks on._

 

* * *

 

 

The bottle of whiskey has emptied, it now sits on the coffee table.

 “Oh, fuck” Tinsley hisses. He crouches over and runs his hands through his hair before grabbing onto base of the strands. “Oh, god no…" Tinsley unwillingly makes eye contact with Ricky who seems lax against the beige walls.

“I would not lie about somthing like th-” Ricky begins but is stopped when Tinsley springs from his seat.

“I know you’re not lying!” Tinsley’s voice hitches “That’s the problem!”

Ricky throws the cigarette butt into the ash filled fireplace. “Would you like me to step out -do you want me to leave?”

“No.” Tinsley clips.

“Okay.”

Ricky looks out the window to see his Lincoln Continental and takes out its keys from his trouser pocket. He weighs the metal in his hands,

“Could you follow me for a moment, Tinsley?”

Tinsley follows Ricky’s line of sight right to the car.

 

 “You can do that for me, can’t you, love?” Ricky murmurs.

 

In the fog of subdued tension Tinsley breathes out a “yes.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had had some experience in these fits of perversity, (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks.
> 
> -Edgar Allan Poe, The Imp of the Perverse


	5. A Key in Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stained clothes and drinking.

_Ricky looks to his watch, its face caked in dry reddish brown. He tries wiping it off, but it smudges over the surface some more. It won’t be till a few hours for the sun to rise, he concludes._

_Parts of his stained shirt cling to his skin and the tacky feeling makes him walk faster._

_The campus grounds already show signs of activity, then again efforts of slaving over academic work never die at this point in the term. There are few dimly lit windows with drawn curtains scattered over several of the buildings’ wall. He pinpoints Tinsley’s window and assesses if Tinsley is awake. As he stands there, his knee twitches out of a habit. A habit of immediately scaling the building to land himself in Tinsley’s room. After counting his own breaths, he concludes that Tinsley is awake as the dead._

 

* * *

 

 

_Littered paper and mugs full of moist coffee grounds cover most of the surfaces in Ricky’s small room. Goldsworth felt profoundly out of place as he glances to his bed, his desk and his garbage. He looks out his window and sees the mellowest shade of lapiz blue creeping over the sky. In a flurry of clothes thrown about, his leather-bound luggage bag is quickly filling up with crumpled and half folded garments. He notices that his hands have rubbed off some of the dried blood on his packed clothes, but he can worry about that some other time._

_He haphazardly undresses and wipes every bit of exposed skin with the nearest fabric. ‘It just won’t do’ he thinks to himself as he looks over his body. He covers himself up before taking a cautious peek out into the hallway. A grandfather clock stands at the end of the hall, ticking rhythmically. Ricky stares -glares at it for a moment as the seconds hand loudly ticks as if mocking him._

_He dashes to the communal bathroom while carrying fresh clothes. Goldsworth reluctantly flicks the light switch up and his eyes go straight to the mirror. His reflection intrigues him with familiar morbid fascination._

_All the while as Goldsworth stood under the running water, some poor bastard has tumbled upon a sight in an alley on his morning walk._

_The coppery scent momentarily intensifies in the steam. The water swirling towards the drain carries muddy red._

* * *

 

 

_In neatly pressed shirt and trousers, Ricky buttons his coat. He stands with a suitcase on either side of him and a duffel bag laying on the grass behind him_

_He proceeds to do what he’s always done for what he expects to be the last time; climbing up to Tinsley’s window._

_A draft comes in after Ricky. Tinsley still in his bed shivers and pull the covers up his chest.  Ricky knows he shouldn’t wish for Tinsley’s eyes to open but he couldn’t help the sentiment._

_He carefully settles himself by the side of the bed, sitting rather stiffly. He has everything in his sight burned into the back of his mind -to the way Tinsley’s hair parted to the order of books stacked on the desk. He leans over ever so slowly till his mouth is barely touching the shell of Tinsley’s ear and whispers-_

 

* * *

 

 

“Could you follow me for a moment, Tinsley?”

“You can do that for me, can’t you, love?” Ricky hums.

“Yes.”

Both leave the house’s threshold and step onto grass and then gravel. Tinsley thought his eyes were seeing things skewed, he concludes alcohol induced impaired depth perception.

There it is again! A shift in the car’s stance. Goldsworth motions for Tinsley to come close to the vehicle’s rear. There he opens the trunk and in it lies a quivering man no older than Tinsley, bound by the wrist and ankles.

Tinsley snaps his eyes from the man back to Ricky.

“What is this?!” Tinsley hisses

“A year and a half ago, a case of yours went cold.” Ricky ignores the outburst. “Sneaky bastard -this one. Kept changing his name.”

Tinsley knew exactly who the man was.  After months without results from the police department, the family of one of the victims seeked aid from Tinsley’s bureau.  Even after pooling every bit of clues and hours spent over the years resulted in nothing. Of all the failure’s Tinsley has had the displeasure of carrying, this without a doubt was the darkest blemish in his career’s record. Yet, the man with responsible for several crimes of unsavoury details involving young women was here right before Tinsley. 

“Now, what would you say be his sentence if you were to present him to the nearest court?” asks Ricky.

Tinsley could only keep his eyes in the restrained man. He almost felt smug watching over the man who now looked like a rat who accidentally walked into a baited cage.

“Tinsley?” Ricky prods “How long?”

“Most likely…” Tinsley furrows his brows.

The man in the trunk looks agitated, one could say scared.

“A life sentence” Ricky answers his own question and stuffs his hands in pockets “probably eligible for parole. He’s a ‘good man’ as his many acquaintances would vouch…even with all the mess in his ledger”

This is all too familiar to Tinsley who has seen too many not serve the adequate punishment and even walk free despite the how guilty they may be.

The sensation of cotton in the mouth comes back with such ferocity that Tinsley wants to claw at his tongue. The ache in his head has progressed to sharp pricks. He desperately wanted to look away from the sight of Ricky, the gravel road, the man in the trunk -his reflection on the car window. Squeezing his eyes shut kept the nausea at bay for just a moment.

“What are you playing at, Goldsworth?” he grits out.

“Nothing. There are no trick questions or jokes to be had. Just appealing to your nature, I guess.” Ricky leans his head to the side “I’m surprised that you hadn’t gone off to become a police officer.”

Tinsley paces in circles, swiping his palms against his hair. The glare of the sun despite being behind the clouds seemingly grew brighter.

“Fuck! This is too… too much. I- I don’t”

Ricky looks at the bound man icily before slamming the trunk above him. He hears the man shuffling in the compartment before deciding to hop on top of it.

“What would you have done if I had woken you _that morning_ , Tinsley?” Risky sounds as if did wanted a rise out of Tinsley.

Tinsley lets out an incomprehensible sound, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Tinsley?” Comes Ricky’s stern voice.

“I don’t know, alright?! What do you want me to say?” Tinsley thought that his head would split open.  Images of Ricky in the alley all those years ago form behind his closed lids, then the motel and now this. His inebriated mind is spinning so fast that he expected whiplash. With the bile rising in Tinsley, his eyes prickle on the edges with tears.

“God! How many?” Tinsley asks with every ounce of bitterness he can muster.

“How many what?”

Tinsley only has so much patience to give but he resorts to say nothing and waits.

“Does it matter?” Ricky furrows his brows.

Tinsley pictures a younger Ricky, the one who didn’t leave him. As Tinsley opens his mouth to answer, the telephone rings.

“Better get that.” Ricky nods his eyes to the house. Two more rings follow, like shrill birds desperate for a meal. Tinsley turns his heel without a word and walks back into the house.

Ricky hops off the vehicle and locks the trunk.

 

-

“Yes. Yes. I’ll look…into it.” Tinsley mutters before feebly placing the telephone on the hook. He turns around to see Goldsworth lounging on the springy sofa.

“I missed you…” Ricky says with a softness that makes Tinsley furious yet melt “terribly if I may add.”

Tinsley is still angry at Ricky and his indifference, yet as he watches Ricky from the side, he could’ve sworn that he saw a younger man who drank stale coffee religiously and carried picnic baskets at dawn. He realizes that it is the same man and that it always will be.

“If it’s not much trouble” Ricky turns to face Tinsley “I’d like to spend another night here”

Tinsley doesn’t answer, instead he rummages through a kitchen cupboard and finds himself more whiskey. The hours go by excruciatingly slow. Ricky keeps an eye on Tinsley as he becomes more of a hazard to himself every passing minute. He tries to ease Tinsley by putting on a [record](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9XVdtX7uSnk). Music floats around the house and disguises the off-putting aura that seems to be fermenting.

Ricky lets himself into the kitchen and finds what he can to make supper while Tinsley slowly drifts to sleep on the sofa. Tinsley’s pantry didn’t offer much to work with. Ricky having to cook with Tinsley’s meager stock made the experience endearing to the shorter man. Déjà vu washed over Ricky and he sees himself seven years younger, busy worrying over his term paper while trying to come up with something to eat.

 

* * *

 

 

A sharp gasp escapes Tinsley’s mouth when he wakes. The living room is dark save for the single light post by the driveway. He looks out the window to see the shadowy vegetation that surrounded his -- secluded home. A Lincoln continental still sits where he lasts saw it and Goldsworth snug in an armchair fast asleep. Tinsley’s head still ached; this came as no surprise. The clockface is shrouded by the darkness, but Tinsley makes no effort to turn the lights on, for him knowing the time _doesn’t matter._

The car keys lay on a drawer by the door, convenient, bare and utterly inviting.  He takes it in his hand and steps out the front door. He comes to the gravel laded ground with the laxness of someone retrieving their groceries and pushes the keys into the trunk key-hole.

Tinsley has the keys in one while the other stays stretched out to hold the trunk. Sounds of fabric shuffling ensue as Tinsley looks over the man. With the post lamp’s light, only dim outlines of their faces could be made out. There is a gentleness in the hold that Tinsley has when gripping the man’s inner elbow. He pulls him out onto the gravel with as much grace as his bound ankles and wrists would grant him.

For a brief moment, the memory of countless nights going over details of this man’s crimes slip into Tinsley’s mind but is quickly outstripped as he thinks back to the pivotal night six years ago, picturing details as trivial as the texture of the pavement in the alley all to Ricky walking back to his dorm room in soiled clothes.

 

* * *

 

 

Above Tinsley and the man lying next to him is the sky dipping into a gradient of mottled navy blue. A speck of water hits Tinsley’s cheek and he looks up expecting a welcomed torrent. A few more drops come, and they run down Tinsley’s face to mix with the splatter of blood covering some expanse of his face. The diluted blood runs down his neck and into his shirt. His back is against the car’s tire, shoulders slack and legs stretched on the ground.

The keys are loosely held in one hand, now sticky with a thin layer of blood. A moment of clarity so sharp it feels like the world’s subdued hues have now bloomed into lush technicolour. Despite the sun’s absence he looks over the pale gravel that now have dark splatters that trail over the grass where a man lays eerily still. The breeze picks up the faint rusty smell one would find at behind the doors of a butcher shop.  

The house’s front door opens and Goldsworth steps out to walk towards his car. Tinsley keeps his eyes on Ricky’s feet, not eager to see his face. Ricky walks by the body with cool insouciance, as if he hadn’t seen it or bothered to regard it.

 

Tinsley is acutely aware every sway of the grass’ blades, the blood soaking into the dirt, and Ricky’s movements. His eyes are glassy when Ricky kneels down beside him to take the keys from his hand.

A few sticky strands of hair plaster themselves on Tinsley’s forehead, prompting Ricky to push them to the side. Goldsworth takes Tinsley’s hand and rubs his thumb over it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

Ricky has Tinsley in the tub. He kneels on the bathroom floor with his sleeves rolled up, and despite that, they still manage to get wet, not that he minded. The feel of warm wet clothes hasn’t bothered him for years. Beside him is a pile of Tinsley’s reddened clothes.

He gets a washcloth and starts scrubbing between Tinsley’s fingers. Ricky hums as he does so.

“I thought you didn’t care for vigilantism.” Tinsley says.

“I don’t” Ricky’s attention moves to Tinsley’s nails. “but you do, yes?”

Tinsley looks to the browned water with calm intrigue. “I don’t think I do”

 

Ricky smiles, not wryly nor smugly, but in a way that Tinsley was very much fond of seeing in their younger years.

 “If it is not much trouble” Ricky stops scrubbing “I’d like to spend another night here.”

 

 


	6. The Haze Accompanying Bridge Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delirium and bloody intentions mingle. Here is to a fresh and messy start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to check out [Echo_4127's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo_4127/pseuds/Echo_4127) amazing [moodboards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144972)

               

 

Something drained out along with that man’s blood that night.

What it was… Tinsley couldn’t say. As the thought ran through his mind, he realized he didn’t know if he was referring to the night before or the night Ricky left.

No matter. It is a new day and the scent of dulled pine wafts through the bedroom window.

 

 

“You’re here.” it almost sounded like a question.

“Course I am” Ricky says with his eyes still closed.

 

Tinsley felt warm under his all the layer of fabric -the pyjamas and thick blanket with the addition of Ricky’s arm over him.

He realizes that Goldsworth has stayed above the blanket through the night and debates to ask why. He chooses to keep his mouth shut.

 

“We ought to leave.” Tinsley mutters with a fatigued voice one would associate to the unwillingness to do chores.

“Anything you want, dear.”

“No I meant that we-“

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

The mundane morning routine feels eerily similar to those of that have come before this day. Often, Tinsley feels that Ricky was never there as soon as the shorter man would patter into another part of the house and out his sight. He checks the window to see the Lincoln still sitting over the gravel with half-hearted expectation but is nonetheless relieved every time to see it unmoved. 

He takes the last tea packet from its box. As he flattens the cardboard, he opens the small trash bin with its pedal. The soiled shirt he wore the night before lays in the bin, browned oxidized blotches cover the fabric. Tinsley releases his foot from the bin’s pedal and looks elsewhere. Ricky is heard humming in the living room and the stagnant water of time reverts back to an easy flow.

It was strange to see the house speckled with evidence of life. The pitter patter of Ricky meddling with something here and there, the radio flickering from channel to channel not by Tinsley’s hand. The house was no doubt big enough for an average family. Barren of but a single occupant for years, the empty rooms collecting dust gave Tinsley maudlin thoughts. He chose this house long ago for its seclusion in the up skirts of town, but it was never quite home.

 

* * *

 

A small luggage bag lays on the mattress. Shirts and trousers sit snug in the corners of the bag while some lay on the blanket, left to a last-minute decision to be packed or forgotten. Tinsley takes flips through his wallet and slides out his investigator ID card. The sound of the bathroom faucet squeak and running water disappear. Tinsley drops the card and uses his foot to nudge it under the bedside table.

Ricky steps out of the bathroom and leans onto the door’s opening.

“You ready?”

Tinsley closes his luggage trunk and offers a lopsided smile to Ricky.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

Wispy clouds wade through the dusk sky when Tinsley looks at his house through the right-side mirror. The house shrinks and retreats into the darkness with every passing second. Tinsley’s eyelids flicker as they struggle to stave off sleep in this early evening. The few seconds of being seated on soft cushions vibrating from the rumble of the engine lulls him into a haze.  He wants to turn to Ricky but keeps his eyes glued to the mirror. He hears Ricky talk of heading east, somewhere he’s never been, far far away.

A glance to Tinsley is taken every few minutes. Ricky scrutinises the years passed on Tinsley’s stockier appearance for the hundredth time. After a gearshift, Ricky takes Tinsley’s hand to rub his thumb over the knuckles. Tinsley doesn’t stir with gesture and Ricky lifts the hand to graze it against his lips. For a split second, passive memory or misguided senses told Ricky he smelt copper.

 

* * *

 

 

After rubbing his sleep worn eyes, Tinsley expected cluttered corners filled with worn and frayed books, the stale smell of mothballs and aged wood, the agitation from hours of studying the night before. A strange but pleasant jolt comes over him when he realizes he is in a moving car.

The vehicle comes to a stop at a gas station convenience store. They are parked far enough from sufficient light.

“I’ll be getting something to drink. S’there anything you’d like?” Ricky asks.

Tinsley shakes his head.

“Alright.”

Ricky has a foot out the door when Tinsley grabs at his sleeve. Thinking Tinsley changed his mind about wanting something, Ricky turns to him.

Tinsley’s hands yank at Ricky’s collar with not much force, but all the while the act felt exhilarating to the both of them. Their lips met with no flurry of movement passed, just steady assurance and care. Long lost warmth was due, but they pull away against their own wishes. Tinsley offers another chaste kiss on the corner of Ricky’s mouth, an experimental touch almost.

“Still don’t want anything?” the words slip between a sly smile.

“More of you, perhaps.”

They have missed the authentic cheekiness in their conversations. Sharp repartees on damp bedsheets and immature goading.

Ricky softly laughs when he makes his way into the store. As Tinsley watches him meander through the shelves he wonders where Ricky has been, what has he seen, what he has done, who he has been with. Tinsley shifts in his seat and lights himself a cigarette.

Under the fluorescents of the store was one other man -not the cashier. He was a tad bit older than Tinsley, rigged faced and stood slightly hunched. He wore a plain brown jacket with a button missing by the collar. Tinsley watches him asking for a magazine from the cashier and drop loose change ungraciously on to the counter. The smoke blooming in front of Tinsley’s face masks the sight of the man getting into his car and driving off. Tinsley turns back to the window of the store only to see Ricky staring at him from right in front the car, a hand gripping a foam coffee cup. A blank face that had flashes of curiosity.

 

* * *

 

 

The sharp taste of rust lingers in Tinsley’s mouth. He awakes to another unexpected scene -of clear skies with beams of orange sifted through the trees. He smells dew in the air, sharp, clean and refreshing. It is accompanied by something sweet and metallic. He is lying atop a bed of grass and pebbles. There is a weight on his left arm which laid on the grass. Ricky has his head cushioned by Tinsley’s arm -clearly asleep. There is sticky and partially dried muck on he and Ricky.

“God…fuck.” He pushes himself up “My clothes.” Ricky slips to the grass with groggy remarks that Tinsley didn’t quite catch.

A few feet of weed, rocks, and grass away is a man in a brown jacket lying face down. Tinsley had the immediate urge to wash the stickiness from his hands. No doubt blood and dirt. He crawls to the stream less than a few feet away and plunges his hands into the cold water. There was no satisfying plume of crimson that wafted away from his fingers for the blood had dried so much so that it was another painted layer of skin. Tinsley scrubs his hands till rust washes off. The ever-shifting water shows his mutilated reflection, the splatters and streaks of browned red that ran from his jaw down to the expanse of cloth on his torso and legs.

Is this what Ricky saw during his escapades or did he develop finesse and more artful handling? Tinsley thought as he splashes his face. He feels illustrious and repulsed in the most curious sense. He feels like a voyeur to something perverse, erotic, if not more -but he collects his thoughts and wades through the memory of last night.  

 

* * *

 

 

_They are on the road with far spaced lamp posts that eventually stretch into the lightless wilderness. In the distance is yellow with small smoke bellowing from bellow. A car with its hood up, hissing as if it were a battered animal coughing out smoke. Ricky pulls over behind the vehicle, shining his high beam. A familiar faced man wearing a brown jacket comes into view with his hands shielding his eyes, his hands covered in inky motor oil.  Ricky unlocks the doors. There is a whining ring in Tinsley’s ear that makes him almost flinch. He opens his door by an inch and despite the hum of the engine he hears running water from beyond the shrub._

_“Are you frightened, Tinsley?” Ricky asks._

_“I don’t think so.”_

_“In that case,” he hands the knife to his taller companion._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i'm not dead -just overwhelmed with life in general. i do appreciate you guys sticking around and leaving your thoughts. 
> 
> cheers


	7. Sullied and Loving It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visiting a new country warrants the partaking in tourist activities, yes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still breathing and kicking.  
> here's a chapter that's longer, messier and filled with more murder.
> 
> enjoy.

 

 

 

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I’d like to welcome everyone on Pan Am Flight 153. We are currently cruising at an altitude of thirty-three thousand feet at an airspeed of four hundred miles per hour. The time is 2:25 pm Eastern Daylight Time. The weather has promising sunshine, we are expected to land in …. ”

The sound of Ricky closing the blinds comes with a snap, but not before Tinsley takes a glance of out the tiny oval window for it shall be the last time he sees American soil.

Tinsley stretches his legs and cranes his neck. They never discussed a plan, but when Ricky said that he’d get them to Rome, Tinsley couldn’t help but think how much sense it made in the light of what his life has become.

Ricky creeps his hand over Tinsley’s arm which lays above the seat rest. Tinsley’s timid fingers curl around Ricky’s. The most logical thought that both their minds and hearts concocted said:  _let’s run away together._

A stewardess walks by and they detangle their fingers out of unwanted habit.

“Can I offer you gentlemen anything to drink?”

“I’ll have an Old Fashioned” Ricky says.

“I’ll have the same.”

 

* * *

 

There was too much orange zest in his drink Tinsley thought. There is winding pressure deep in his ears and a gnawing ache in his temples.

Most of the passenger are occupied with keeping to themselves. Some nap, some converse about the latest records they have listened to.

“I thought you wanted to be a historian.” Ricky says with his eyes closed. He looks to be on the edge of sleep, his face is slightly turned away from Tinsley. A common sight in the dimly lit libraries and dorm rooms when they shared each other’s company.

Tinsley only shrugs and give a lethargic hum.

“You were always fond of things from the past.”

“Too fond” Tinsley says almost bitterly, and he chides himself for it. He hopes Ricky didn’t catch it, and if he did, he didn’t seem to show it.

“When did you decide to go into detective work?”

Tinsley traced the fingers on Ricky’s cuff. Long nights of waiting and grief channeled through the delicate touch was all the answer Ricky needed.

“I know you’re still angry.”

Tinsley pulls his hand back. He’s not angry or he at least think he isn’t.  Ricky drops a hand onto Tinsley’s knee and squeezes it.

 “I promise to make it up to you.”

There is a stern turn in Ricky’s voice, the kind of intonation you would hear when someone promises their lover that they shall return from war.  Of course he meant it and Tinsley clings too it.

 

* * *

 

A flurry of bags and hurried German words flew past the next hour. A firm pound of the stamp against the passport’s rings and with a clinical stare an officer mutters “Welcome to Vienna.”

Out they were, on a taxi to accommodations Ricky has spoke about prior. Foreign scenery envelopes the two of them. Unfamiliar buildings, signs, shops whip by like a reel in a film.

 

 

_A bakery, a general store, a theatre disappears for new buildings in a few blinks. It's 1962 and Ricky takes his head away from the window and looks his right. They’ve just left campus from an excruciating day of barely comprehensible lectures.  Around them is the monotonous hum of the bus and the bored expressions of other passengers. Beside Ricky is Tinsley, fast asleep with his jaw set on a shoulder. Ricky looks down to his own lap where a paper bag sat. In the bag was a book on Roman history, a gift for the man beside him as soon as soon as he woke up. Ricky adjusts the bag on his lap before looking out the window once more._

 

 

It’s an old pale eggshell coloured building. With windows and corners tastefully ornate.  A large inviting burgundy door sits before them. With luggage in tow, the boys shuffle through the entrance. A frail old woman who Ricky referred to as Mrs. Dietrich greets them in soft German and English. She and Ricky exchanged a few words that Tinsley doesn’t bother listening to, too busy taking in his surroundings. It’s as pale if not paler than the exterior. Thin film of dust scattered unevenly among various surfaces with evidence of an effort to use a feather duster. Tinsley basks in the sight of polished wooden flooring and ivory walls adorned with paintings.  The woman hands over keys to Ricky before she patters into the next room. 

Now left to their own devices, Tinsley and Ricky proceed up the stairs with casual pace. Tinsley’s hands are occupied with luggage, this makes him antsy to touch the stair rails for they have a familiar quality to them. He realizes that they have a similar make to those at his old dormitory.  He looks up and watches Ricky who is picking up the pace up each step. A site he has seen in different circumstances in similar halls and stairs. _Strange times, these are._ Tinsley thinks to himself. 

 

* * *

 

Third floor up and they arrive to their quarters. Two rather small beds that lay side by side have only one bedside table between them. There is a desk by the windows and short balcony with just enough room to stand outside.  A single wardrobe with some scuffs to its wood sits beside the bathroom door.

“This is cozy” Tinsley plops onto the spring racked bed that squeaks under his weight. “How did you find this place?”

“I traveled here and there” Ricky waves his hand around. “Saw the world a bit.”

“By your self?” Tinsley regrets the words immediately.

“Well…they were lonely years.”

Tinsley looks down to his shoes, awkwardly picking a loose thread protruding out his pants as Ricky busies himself with his luggage.

“I never met anyone else if that was what was on your mind.” Ricky says with his back turned to Tinsley who blurts out nervous laughter only a guilty man trying to deny something would. They ease into a comforting atmosphere once more.

“I’ll get us something to eat. Sit tight for me.” Ricky turns back to Tinsley who doesn’t look up.

In Ricky’s hand is a stack of cards and envelopes bound by twine now being shoved unceremoniously to Tinsley’s face. Ricky gives an embarrassed apology for spooking him.

“Here’s some literature in case you get bored.”

A surprised “oh” escapes Tinsley’s lips as accepts the parcel. Tinsley is left to himself in an unfamiliar room again. He does a quick tour of the accommodation, noting the few cobwebs that lingered in its corners. He walks by the windows, shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the desk chair. Tinsley makes himself comfortable over the desk and begins to unwind the twine.

Postcards and letters are now unbound, spread across the desk. Some envelopes and cards have rims of coffee stains, mud, and proverbial blotches of rust. He picks up a postcard dated July 15, 1962 from Los Angeles bearing a picture of Venice Beach.

 

_Dearest Tinsley,_

_I miss seeing you in shades. You would have loved it here._

_I would love you here._

_I do love you from all the way here._

_I would  love to make love to you here._

 

_Your most detested,_

_RG_

 

His cheeks tint and he places the card to the side and reaches out for another. It has the picture of the Equestrian statue of Frederick the Great. It is dated October 19, 1965.

 

_Darling Tinsley,_

_I am for lack of a better word wistful._

_All the red leaves have fallen off their branches here. I bought a record that reminded me of you. Do you think of me?_

_Yours if you’ll still have me,_

_RG_

 

Tinsley creases his brow and brings the letter to his lips before setting it down. A few postcards mapping the southwest of the U.S. are flipped through. Their words seared into Tinsley’s memory. He scans over the blanket of cards and picks up one of the many sealed envelopes. It had a bright stamp of a Roman sculpture he didn't recognise, his dorm’s address and no return address. Inside is a small crumpled sheet of paper covered in drawn out ink so much so that there is barely much white space in its margins. Tinsley notices that the words looked to be hastily jot down. Dark brown smudges and dots decorate it corners.

 

_April 24, 1966_

 

_Tinsley,_

_I dreamt of you last night. You were angry, but you still wrapped your arms around me. I felt every sinew of your muscles warp and every bit of warmth radiating off you. It may be the closest thing I’ll have of you in a long time._

_I will wait with no more than I have tolerance when starving to feign patience to see you. I wish for every ounce of rage you ought to inflict on me, for every tear to drive guilt into my bones, and curses to shrivel my soul with the hate you ought to give. To hear you tell me to 'fuck off' would warm me better than the red rushes I give myself._

_I promise to make you see what I’ve seen, felt what I felt. God, the things we could see and do together. It wouldn’t be genuine of me to apologize wanting to damn you too, but it is a fantasy that keeps me in a sense -sane.  My apprehension grows with everyday I don’t hear from you, but I suppose that it is my on doing. I don’t know if these words will ever fall into your hands and for now, I can only express all that I feel onto a sheet – a sheet of paper that could contain anything else other than how I must say I love you. I love you at your most stubborn bark. I will love you even if you are repulsed and furious. I love you even when you burn my toast. I will love you at your most ill of days. I love you with the contentment of a man who has had years of domestic bliss. I will love you with no hope of reprieve. I love you even with your most bitter contempt and ire for my being. I will love you for any ending we shall find together._

_Your remarkably homesick bastard,_

_RG_

 

Tinsley traces his fingers against the ink before reaching out to grab another letter with urgency. The door swings open and there stood Goldsworth with a paper bag in hand looking somewhat nervous and uneasy.

Ricky looks to Tinsley’s hands and steadies himself. He walks over to the desk to set the bag of bread down, careful to not look at Tinsley’s face. Neither dared to say a word and Ricky prompts himself to step back.

Tinsley snatches Ricky’s wrist to spin him back to face him.

“You complete and utter ass.” Tinsley grits out.

It’s been so long but the sensation will never feel foreign. It is far from a proper kiss- it is hasty and full of urgency. How long has Ricky thought of the taste of Tinsley’s fury? There is no room for chasteness, just teeth and obscene wet noises. Ricky’s knees succumb to Tinsley’s incessant tugs to his shirt and he finds himself straddling Tinsley’s thighs. Impatient hands of both parties struggle to not break the buttons off their stitches when undoing their shirts.

 

A knock at the door barely breaks the spell, Ricky and Tinsley look at each other as if communicating "What now?". They stay silent hoping the ill-timed business to be addressed beyond the door would leave. Another knock rings out from the wood while Tinsley unfastens Ricky’s belt.

“Yes?” Ricky calls out right before he nips the skin under the Tinsley’s jaw.

“Would you like to join Mr. Dietrich and I for supper?”

Tinsley looks to the bag of bakery sweets on the desk and smiles into Ricky’s cheek.

“Oh! We were actually just on our way out for some errands!”

Tinsley shoots him a look of disbelief. Mostly unhappy from having follow through with Ricky’s lie. They make an attempt to look decent much to their chagrin. Tinsley gathers the letters and places them under the mattress.

Tinsley’s hands were on the door’s lock when Ricky turns him to fix his disheveled collar. Mischievous smiles are exchanged before unlocking the door.

 

* * *

 

The sun dipped further to the west and on to the streets the boys went. Tinsley occupies himself by stuffing his mouth with a savoury loaf while Ricky gnaws at a large pastry. The clouds languidly brushe over the departing sun causing the sky to project diffused warm and cold colours.

Once in every few steps Tinsley and Ricky’s hands brush against each other.

 

* * *

 

The lights of shops start to illuminate the street. Bright foggy yellows pop up above the pavements. Rain starts to pour, but the boys paid it no mind.

Tinsley slows his stride as they pass by a shop so dim he thought they were closed already. The shop’s display window showcases a stack of books. Some early editions of encyclopedias and some first edition novels. Tinsley sees a battered history book laid open on a stand to display a page with a grainy print of the Galatian Suicide sculpture.

“I’ve kept that book you know” Tinsley says, still eyeing the books beyond the glass window. He feels the rain soak through his coat and into his shirt.

Ricky is looking through the shops dark interior, searching for anything else that might peak his curiosity. “What book?”

“The one on Roman history. You gave it to me just as I left a bus then.”

Ricky follows the focus of Tinsley’s eyes.

“Ah, yes.” Ricky lights up “Well you are quite a nerd and it was a challenge to find the most boring book to tantalize you.”

Tinsley snorts before Ricky speaks again.

“Is it back at your house?”

“No.” Tinsley looks to the shop’s entrance. “It’s at my firm’s office.”

He walks to the door and holds it open for Ricky. The bell hanging above the door’s frame rattles and middle-aged man shuffles from behind the cash register. He sports horn-rimmed glasses and a gruff face. He sorts what looks to be ledgers and turns away from the boys after seeing them invite themselves into the shop in their dripping form.

Shelves are filled with antiquated knick knacks. Paintings too large to hang are leaned against the windows and furniture. The walls are adorned with gilded mirrors styled in baroque to art nouveau fashion.

Ricky and Tinsley continue to create a trail of water droplets all over the floor.

There is another section of the shop that could easily be missed, a windowless room is filled with animals in animated poses. Some with cartoonish outfits like the powder white rabbit in a tailcoat holding a pocket watch to its cheek propped up by needles and wires under its cotton stuffed fur. Heads of stags are lined across the wall, they are accompanied by a bust of a zebra, antelope, and bison. There is an open glass case that held a collection of knives, some ornate and others almost primitive. An array of diaphonized specimens sit on every tier of a mahogany shelf. Bats and colourful birds are perched on branches and stands. Some are in glass cages. Plastic beady eyes are trained to Tinsley and Ricky.

The man from the register calls out from behind them. The words foreign to Tinsley’s ears. 

The man has flipped the shop’s open sign on the door.

“Sorry?” Tinsley steps out onto the main floor.

The man raises an eyebrow to him and frowns. He waves a hand round the shop, eyes looking around before delivering the word “Closed” in a tight clipped manner.

“Oh.” Tinsley looks to the book on the display and points. “but I’d like to get that.”

Ricky can be heard humming a tune in the taxidermy display room. His footsteps echo on the hardwood at a leisurely pace.

The man just shakes his head at Tinsley and points to the door “Closed”. Tinsley politely smiles and walks back to the neighboring room making the man huff out a disgruntled sound. The man follows suite, audible grumbles are heard when he catches up to Tinsley.

“Hey!” the man raises voice when he sees the two looking around the specimens without a much care on their faces. Tinsley’s back is facing the man, laxed shoulders and relaxed posture.

The man is about to make an ill-worded threat, but he finds himself unable to speak. He feels an odd sensation of heat in his throat that spans from the far sides of his neck. His chest catches the warmth and it travels down his belly. He opens his mouth to try again only to have a wet sputter leave it. He doesn’t realize that Tinsley has been facing him this entire time. He sees an old Austrian hunting knife no longer polished and sitting in its display case but in Tinsley’s hand, one side of the blade lined with red that drips on the end.

Ricky is busy threading his hands through the tuffs of hair on the bison’s forehead. He glides his fingers to its neck, still humming his tune. He doesn’t spare the act between Tinsley and the man a glance, but he trains his eyes to the bison’s shiny prosthetic eye where it reflects the silhouettes of Tinsley and the man.

The knife clatters to the varnished floor and follows the man’s knees. His frantic eyes lock on Tinsley’s as he presses a palm to his neck. He pulls at the bottom of Tinsley’s coat and speckles of blood land on Tinsley’s trousers and shoes. Heaves and coughs continue to reverberate through the shop with Ricky’s soft hums. Tinsley kneels down to examine his work, he traces a finger to the wound and presses into the corner. The man fights for breath and coils his legs into an attempt at kicking spurred further by Tinsley’s prodding. Tinsley revels at the exposed carotid artery leaking in large spurts.  The huffs and puffs weaken and the Tinsley notices that the tune that filled the room is silenced.

A hand brushes over a few damp strands away from Tinsley’s forehead. Tinsley lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. He trails his vision to the hand up to Ricky's eyes who wears a fond expression on his face. He presses his face into the Ricky's palm and sighs. The knees of Tinsley’s trousers soak the puddle of blood that stretches over floor.

Ricky pulls Tinsley to his feet and gives him a once over. Tinsley doesn’t look dazed; his mind doesn’t feel muddled compared to that night in front of his house or by the creek.

One of Tinsley’s stained hand reaches over to Ricky’s face. As his knuckles brush over Ricky’s jaw, smudges of red are left on the stubbled skin. Tinsley watches his hand with hooded lids and with much intrigue. His wet thumb ghosts over Ricky’s lower lip before applying force, swiping a streak of red from one corner of Ricky’s mouth to the other. The pool of blood has grown to reach their shoes. It continues to spread over the flooring like lacquer and Tinsley looks down to see their reflection in it.

It is seemed strange to him -his reflection. It looked nothing like himself, but he felt it was the most honest kind of mirror.

He turns back to Ricky to place both his hands on the base of Ricky’s head -right where his neck meets his jaw. A bruising kiss is pushed against Ricky’s lips. As their shoes left the ground when Tinsley stumbled into Ricky, they could feel the tacky slick sounds of their soles sliding over the blood bellow them.

Tongue and teeth – any trace of gentleness resolutely rejected without notice. And by god, Tinsley felt a plume of brightness in himself. Ricky sensed it and it made him smile. A toothy grin forms amidst the raw and brash contact they danced. When they come apart, hair wild and eyes feral, their eyes instantly gravitate to red on their mouths. Ricky couldn’t help but mutter a curse at what he sees.

Tinsley’s antsy fingers take apart Ricky’s belt buckle while Ricky’s hands work to undo Tinsley’s shirt buttons. They settle against a table that propped up a taxidermied grey wolf. Ricky’s head leans against the rough fur while Tinsley busies himself on Ricky’s neck. Tinsley’s hand presses against the wolf’s frame for support as he pushes his weight on to Ricky. A bloodied handprint is left on the animal’s coat.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this.”  Ricky breathes.

Tinsley couldn’t help but curse as Ricky’s hand latched around him. It has indeed, been a long time. He too has missed this.

Tinsley returns the favour which makes Ricky momentarily lose his rhythm. Tinsley’s other hand which still rested against the wolf now balls up in a first, yanking some of the fur so tightly that it might rip off from the hide.

“Faster -please.” Tinsley whispers.

“Tit for tat?” Goldsworth chimes with a grin but is interrupted by a gasp caused by Tinsley’s hastened efforts on him.

They finished looking absolutely wrecked on top of the stained clothes and sweat. Tinsley’s legs crumple and his knees hit the floor. He rests his head on Goldsworth’s stomach and clings to his thighs. Ricky shudders and toys with the locks on Tinsley’s head before letting himself succumb to weariness and joining Tinsley on the floor.

There they laid in the most indecent of states, content and fucked out.

They both face the ceiling, basking in the afterglow and Ricky has his eyes closed when he hears “Do you know why I became a detective?”

Tinsley felt the pool of blood finally reach his hand which laid on the floor.

“No,” Ricky rolls over to lay a kiss on Tinsley’s exposed collarbone. “Why?”

He felt Tinsley’s hand stroke his back.

 

Tinsley whispers “Because I wanted to find you.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well....that happened
> 
>  
> 
> i don't think i really proofread this properly -so sorry about that.


	8. Gondolas and Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stop to watch the canals before reaching Rome.  
> This love may have a body count, but one must remember that bliss is a debt that requires payment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a halloween treat for you...  
> and no, sorry it aint spooky or gory :/

 

“Where would we be by next year.”

“I don’t know.” Ricky says.

Ricky pours more wine into his and Tinsley’s glasses. The sun is still high and the waters of the Venetian canals glimmer like the champagne that fizzes in the boys’ glasses.

Tinsley’s feet are perched up on the railings of the balcony and the little radio inside the room hums out a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ItfoFXkhqGw).

 

_And when I tried it_

_I could see you fall_

_And I decided_

_It's not a trip at all_

_You taught it to me too_

_Exactly what you do_

_And now you love me too_

_Ooh, it's true_

_We're in love, we two_

 

Tinsley tries to savour his drink but doesn’t realise he has finished his glass quicker than intended.

 

“Oh no, we’re out.” Tinsley tips the hollow bottle all the way up to let a few drops find their way into the glass.  “Could you fetch us another bottle”

 

Ricky raises an eyebrow while eyeing Tinsley who tilts his head and feigns a needy beg, “Please?”  He leans in and nips the shell of Goldsworth’s ear. “Please…” he kisses Ricky’s neck. “Did I tell you that you look divine today?”

 

Ricky laughs at the statement and Tinsley persists.

 

“Flattery will get you” Ricky receives another kiss to the juncture of his jaw “…everywhere” he rescinds into another fit of laughter. “All right, all right! I’m getting some more you loafing long-legged idiot!”

Tinsley snaps his elbows into himself in victory of having not to leave his seat, letting out a quick “Yes!” while doing so. He relaxes into his seat with a large grin.

 

Inside the kitchen, Ricky looks over the wine rack and sees an impressive collection of reds and picks one on a whim.  ‘Ruby port’ the bottle reads. He passes by the counter where a copy of a week-old newspaper from Vienna, “Die Presse”, sat atop. The headline featuring a picture of a familiar antique shop.

 

Ricky takes his seat and works the cork off the bottle and pours into Tinsley’s glass first. Venetian gondolas wander across the glimmering water of the murky canal that with longer observation looks like a wide road consisting of a mirage of lights. Linen curtains of different shades swell and dance about the confines of buildings’ windows. It makes the houses look as if they were breathing erratically -as if they sense the oncoming winter.

 

Something in the water catches Tinsley’s eyes. It drifts not too far from the balcony in soft bounces. He assumed it to be rubbish till he sees it unfurl itself to be an embroidered black veil. The water running through its laces, bobbing it up and down. Tinsley is transfixed by the fabric and thinks of it as an offering or a greeting from a _friend._

 

A friend he has always had but regretfully never acknowledged in the times prior. But Goldsworth-

Now Ricky Goldsworth has shaken hands with this friend countless of times. It is the friend all have seen a glimpse of, the friend that we implore with, the friend we rarely invite, and the friend that welcomes flesh into the dirt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You have that friend too._

 

 

 

 

 

A loud cry erupts. The wind carries the scream across the city and the curtains catch it as it enters the people’s houses. Goldsworth looks across the canal to see a crowd in black attire at the edge of a dock where a large gondola bears a mass of bouquets on top of bouquets. Even from a distance, Ricky sees a woman collapse to her knees as people hastily try to get her to stand up. She curls into herself despite the hands holding her. The woman shakes and wails when she pulls her head up to the casket blanketed with white irises nestled in the middle of the dark gondola. The woman lets out another thundering shriek before collapsing onto her side. The people around her swarm over her figure like a murder of crows swooping over a harvest.

As Tinsley watches the scene before him with vivacious interest, he fails to notice how far he has tipped his glass. The port drips over the rim and lands on his olive sweater. Several splotches mark his chest and he clicks his tongue in annoyance. He’s lost far too many clothes to stains already.

 

* * *

 

They decide to have dinner out of the house. Ricky grooms himself in the bathroom for fifteen minutes too long for Tinsley’s liking. He continues to take his time till he hears Tinsley yap from behind the door.

 

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” Ricky hollers back.

 

Goldsworth smooths his hair over one last time before glancing at the petrified woman in the bathtub. She has her mouth gagged and scarves bind her hands and ankles behind her.

Ricky sees her trying to sit up for which he counters with a soft push to her shoulders. He draws the shower curtains across the tub and leaves.

 

* * *

 

 

Under Tinsley’s tennis sweater is one of his few remaining oxford shirts. The autumn chill calls for a scarf and his monochrome houndstooth Chesterfield coat.

“God, you look like some preppy ivy league asshole.” Ricky gawks and adjusts the buttons of his own shirt.  “Which means you look dashing by the way and I find it annoying because I can’t do anything about it -not with all these people around.”

Tinsley could only snort, but he would rack his eyes over Goldsworth’s form now and then. Ricky sported a tweed balmacaan coat and brown slacks which reminded Tinsley of a mild-mannered farmer who cared for sheep.

The few trees in the city are now of burning reds and matted yellows. The antiquated buildings to be the forest they reside in. The sky has diffused into colours matching the leaves now, like water too saturated with pigment from tea leaves. The rest of the ride in the gondola was left in comfortable silence till a quaint restaurant with small furniture comes to view and they merrily enter the establishment. They share a plate of Bigoli in Salsa and an array of sweets with wine.

The dim interior lends refuge to shadows. The clangs of wine glasses and the taps of cutlery against porcelain titters about the confines of the room. Sounds too winded, they falter in this reality of what is now abstract shapes and colours. The sweet biscuits’ crumbs are course against Tinsley’s lips, a texture he thinks would suite what he sees around him. The candle between he and Ricky flickers its light with child like care -the yellow shades it casts make the room look like a long-lost impasto painting of jolly strangers feasting in the dark.

 

“What are you thinking about now?” Ricky asks.

 

 

 

_They’re having supper in a diner not far from school grounds. Ricky is prodding at his cold meatloaf when he notices Tinsley smile at a novel he has his nose buried in._

_“What are you smiling about?” Ricky asks._

_“I should have gone through life half awake if you'd had the decency to leave me alone.” Tinsley says._

_Ricky furrows his brow at the response and Tinsley chuckles._ _The light-coloured lettering on the book’s spine read ‘Maurice by E.M. Forster’._

_He turns the book the other way around and slides it over to Ricky. He points at a line which prompts Goldsworth to read it aloud._

_“…...I should have gone through life half awake if you'd had the decency to leave me alone. Awake intellectually, yes, and emotionally in a way; but here--" He pointed with his pipe stem to his heart; and both smiled. "Perhaps we woke up one another. I like to think that anyway…”_

_Ricky looks up and searches for something in Tinsley’s eyes. He doesn’t find it, but he knows that one day he will, and so, he smiles._

“Nothing that isn’t a happy thought.” Tinsley gleams.

 

From the many layers of orange hues and shadows is a silent watcher who prods at his food that has gone cold moments ago.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On their walk back to the house, Tinsley and Goldsworth sway haphazardly despite the insufficient alcohol in their blood. The bliss under streetlamps and frost promised air is palpable. They make a sharp turn into an alley where the lamps’ light barely touch.

 

A figure that has watched and followed them from afar has now stalled. The man waits in apprehension as he waits under different shadows. He ponders on a strategy. To circle to see Tinsley and Ricky on the other side of the alley or to pursue directly behind them.

The man tips his head and soldiers on into the darkness of the alley.

 

* * *

 

 

It is a brief walk over the dim stone tiled ground for the man. A sensation of lambswool tight against his neck induces a flush of adrenaline. Tinsley has come from behind and wrapped his scarf against the man’s windpipe. The frantic squawks from the man are barely punctuated in the air. Tinsley tightens the pull of his scarf, undeterred by the man’s kicking. The spark from Ricky’s lighter illuminates the scene. He nonchalantly lights a cigarette before looking into the man’s eyes. Ricky flips the lighter’s lid on, and a snap of cervical vertebrae has the man surrendered to the void.

 

* * *

 

 

“How long do you think he has been following us?”

“Maybe before the restaurant” Ricky replies.

A search through the man’s pockets ensues. Their findings produce a pocket pistol, an investigator’s identification card in German and documents of correspondence with American authorities. Very clumsy of him and of them.

 

Tinsley and Goldsworth look to each other with a knowing glance. They take the man’s relevant belongings and dust themselves off. The man is left to look like one of the drunks that decided to nap on the much appealing cold floor, looking contented in slumber save for the protrusion on the right side of his neck.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Later that evening, they huddle into the house and welcome the warmth of the inside. Goldsworth discards his bulky coat to don a burgundy smoking jacket. He takes a jar of maraschino cherries from the refrigerator and lounges by the window, plopping a few of the red abominations into his mouth.

Tinsley rubs his chin and thinks a shave is in order. He too discards his coat, ignoring the weight of the German’s belongings that are tucked in the pockets.

 

He opens the bathroom door and the skitter of movement resume in the tub. Diffused grunts and kicks start again. Tinsley runs the warm water and rinses his face. It swirls and plunges into itself and inevitably vanishes into the drain, a convenient and discreet exit of things we must rid of.

The woman in the tub is attempting to scream again. Tinsley is surprised at how she hasn’t tired from all those hours. He dabbles white foam against his cheek, jaw, and neck. A precise scrape of the blade against his taut skin gives a clean and bare finish. The woman wriggles and twists like wrangled fish that has breached the surface. Her motions knock a shampoo bottle to the floor and its loud clatter against the tiles jolts Tinsley. His razor nicks the side of his Adam’s apple, resulting a trickle of red too bright to be real that it looked like scarlet paint under the hazy lights above the mirror. Tinsley lays his razor on the edge of the sink and walks to the tub to draw its curtain back. The woman stills and tears prickle the edges of her mascara stained eyelids. She heaves and quivers, regretting the draw of attention.

Tinsley moves to the foot of the tub and holds up a small chain with a drain stopper at its end. He dangles the object before her as if mocking her for goading him, but there is no perverse glee in his features just curious pondering one would have when picking between which tea to have for breakfast.

He leans over, tucks the stopper snug into the drain and while doing so, the cut on his neck drips over her knee. She flinches at the contact of the thick warm droplets against her skin like it has scalded her.

He sits at the porcelain tub’s edge and turns on its cold-water faucet. As the water continues to rise, the woman’s thrashes and muffled yelps intensify. Tinsley patiently waits for the water to rise to the point it submerges her legs and dilutes the blood that sat atop her skin. He shuts the faucet off before walking back to the mirror to finish his shave.

In the mirror he sees the lines under his eyes to not be as prominent as they once were. He looks refreshed and prepped yet unrefined and out of place. Tinsley looks for something past his reflection.

He finally sees the rot, the polished decay and the rancid splendour. He rubs a hand across his wet face and ruminates over being guilty for not feeling guilty.

The woman’s struggle pushes waves of water to flood the bathroom floor. After the water stills and the bubbles cease to breach, Tinsley draws the curtain over.

 

“Are you coming to bed yet?” Ricky calls out.

Tinsley looks at his reflection’s eyes with more scrutiny and wipes the moisture off the mirror.

“I’ll be right there.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im well aware that Maurice by E.M. Forster was published in the the early 70s but this is an alternate universe so i make the rules baby! :)
> 
>  
> 
> we are close to the end folks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [Echo_4127 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo_4127/pseuds/Echo_4127) for the [lovely work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144972) (a load of smooches to them!)


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